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Poets suffer occasional delusions of angelhood and find themselves condemned to express it in the bric-a-brac tongues of the human world. Lots of them go mad.

Glen Duncan

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Glen Duncan
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: October 17
Author
Bookseller
Novelist
Writer
Glen A. Duncan
Saul Black
Tongue
Tongues
Express
Condemned
Poet
Occasional
Suffering
Delusion
Find
Poets
Brac
Human
Mad
Bric
Humans
Lots
Brics
World
Suffer
Delusions

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No amount of violence you've done to others prepares you for violence done to yourself.
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Pain revealed the paltry dimensions of love. The paltry dimensions of everything, in fact, except pain.
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No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.
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Every present anger derives from past weakness.
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That's what happens when you keep a secret from someone you love: you start to hate them for allowing you to prove your own willingness to deceive them.
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My mother once told me she thought hell would be nothing more than being given a glimpse of God--then having it taken away, forever.
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Just because life's meaningless doesn't mean we can't experience it meaningfully.
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Only meaning can make a difference and we all know there's no meaning. All stories express a desire for meaning, not meaning itself. Therefore any difference knowing the story makes is a delusion.
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Life is nothing but a statement of what happens to be.
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Once you've stopped loving someone breaking his or her heart's just an unpleasant chore you have to get behind you. My God, you really don't love me anymore, do you? No matter your decency the victim's incredulity's potentially hilarious. You manage not to laugh.
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Kneecaps only exist to get hit with claw-hammers grace only exists to be fallen from.
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Literature is humanity's broad-minded alter-ego, with room in its heart for monsters, even for you. It's humanity without the judgement.
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When I see gurgling retarded children (that's God's doing, by the way, not mine) happily styling their hair with their own stinking mards, I think of Adam in those pre-marital days. I know he's your great-to-the-nth-degree-granddad and all - but I'm afraid he was rather an imbecile.
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Renounce love and you can achieve demonic focus.
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I'm an American. We're a people diseased with progress.
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We’re the worst thing because for us the worst thing is the best thing. And it’s only the best thing for us if it’s the worst thing for someone else.
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I don’t know where the universe came from or what happens to creatures when they die. I don’t know if the whole thing’s an unravelling accident or an inscrutable design. I don’t know how one should live—but I know that one should live, if one can possibly bear it.
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Life's generally artless ... but it does get these occasional hard-ons for plot. It connects things, nefariously, behind your back, and before you know it you're in the final act of a lousy movie.
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Words betrayed her: beautiful butterflies in her mind dead moths when she opened her mouth for their release into the world.
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What interests me is love, sex, death, cruelty, compassion and the desire for meaning in an apparently godless universe. In other words the human condition.
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